A Distant Shore (5 page)

“Thank you. And I’m sure Mr. Judson shall banish my self-pity when he begins to speak. He has had a far worse time of it than you or I. A widower, with seven children to feed now!”

Just then Dr. Sharp ascended the pulpit to introduce Adoniram Judson. The crowd fell to a hush. Isobel listened to Dr. Sharp with only half an ear; her mind was still mulling over Margaret’s news. Henry going all the way to China! She suppressed a shiver of apprehension, her program clutched tightly in one gloved hand. It was so very far, and yet Mr. Judson had gone all the way to Burma, and brought his wife there as well...

She turned back to the pulpit as Judson began to speak, his voice a low, unpleasing rasp. She tried to suppress her expression of shock at his awkward manner of speech and husky whisper; she’d heard that a pulmonary condition kept him from speaking at a normal volume, and his many years speaking a foreign tongue made English awkward to him, yet the result made for a less than an engaging speaker. In fact, it was so difficult to understand or even hear him that a third party had to “translate”, repeating his utterances in a booming voice to the crowd at large.

Despite this difficulty, Isobel soon found she was entranced by the words Adoniram Judson communicated to his audience. He was an unprepossessing figure, in his mid-forties although he looked much older, and in exceedingly delicate heath. Despite these detractions, there could be no denying or dimming the passion that shone in his eyes.

“Through the mercy of God I am permitted to stand before you this evening, a pensioner of your bounty,” Adoniram’s aide intoned. “I desire to thank you for all your sympathy and aid, and I pray God’s blessing to rest upon you... all that has been done in Burma has been by the churches, through the feeble and unworthy instrumentality of myself and my brethren...”

As he spoke of his trials in Burma, and all that he had accomplished there, remaining humble throughout, Isobel found herself transported to a place far from the stifling confines of Boston society. Imagine travelling so far on a ship, and seeing so many wondrous and even terrible things! Fancy having the freedom to undertake such an essential and eternal work, far more important than her own feeble efforts at the First School.

For one fierce moment, Isobel envied her brother and Adoniram and all the men—and women—who had adventured far beyond Boston and her own limited experience. They, at least, had seen and done things she never would. They could make their own choices, be captains of their own souls. The romance of it was better than anything she’d read in one of her novels.

The crowd began to applaud, and with a ripple of surprise Isobel realized Mr. Judson’s address was over, and she’d only heard half of it.

“That really was quite stirring,” Margaret said as she gathered her gloves and reticule. “The poor man has been beaten down by this life, yet he is still triumphant. May we all have his fortitude!”

“Quite so,” Isobel murmured. Her mind was still spinning, and it was cast into further disarray when a missionary worker at the doors of the church thrust a pamphlet towards her.

She read the large, black type:
Support Missions
. Instinctively she reached for her reticule, where she had a few coins, only to check herself at the next line:
Give your Time, Talent, and Treasure: Become A Missionary Yourself
.

A strange, shivery sensation passed over her, making her heart leap within her chest in a most peculiar way.

“The man really is a saint,” Margaret murmured. “They do call him the Saint of Burma, you know.” She glanced at Isobel, and then touched her sleeve. “My dear, are you feeling well? You’ve gone quite pale.”

Isobel’s fingers clenched on the pamphlet and she quickly slipped it into her reticule, nodding quickly at Margaret. “Yes, of course. As you say, these rooms get so overheated.”

Yet as they moved out into the cool night air, the crowds dispersing, the queer, shivery feeling did not leave Isobel. Reaching into her reticule to touch the hidden pamphlet, she wondered, with a thrill of trepidation, if she had discovered a way to escape her life in Boston after all.

Chapter Three

Boston, 1838

Isobel stood in front of the bow-fronted building that housed the offices of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions and tried to summon the courage to enter. She’d received a note from the Board’s General Secretary, Mr. Rufus Anderson, that morning, saying he would be happy for her to call at his offices at four o’clock. It was now three minutes before that hour, and Isobel felt an alarming flutter of nerves in her middle; her luncheon of braised trout sat queasily in her stomach. Drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders, her fingers tightening around the bone handle of her reticule, and marched up the steps to the building.

Her knock was answered after a minute or two by a harried looking young man with ink-stained fingers and a crooked cravat. Isobel eyed him with some trepidation, as well as an innate disapproval. “I have an appointment with Mr. Anderson?” she said, her tone turning a bit more imperious than she would have liked because of her nerves. She always became more stiff and formal when she was anxious or uncertain.

“Of course, you must be Miss Moore. Won’t you come in?” He stepped aside, and Isobel sailed into an unprepossessing front room with piles of books and pamphlets covering most of the chairs and the rather rickety table. She looked around in dismay, half-wanting to back out already, but it was too late.

Rufus Anderson opened the door to his private study and beckoned her in. “Miss Moore, I’m delighted to welcome you. Please do come in.” He gestured to the clerk. “Jacob, fetch us some tea, would you, please.”

Gingerly Isobel made her way past the stacks of books into a far more comfortable room. Mr. Anderson gestured for her to sit down and he returned to the other side of the desk, steepling his fingers under his chin. “I was very pleased to receive your letter,” he said, smiling, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. “And indeed pleased to hear of your family’s interest in missions.”

“You were?” Isobel said. She shifted in her seat, frowning in uneasy confusion. “My family’s interest… but I wrote to you on my own behalf, Mr. Anderson, not that of my family.”

Anderson shrugged this aside. “Forgive my presumption, but naturally I assumed your interest in missions is your family’s interest, Miss Moore. Perhaps I should tell you of some of our more pressing needs, and then you might relate these to your father?” He raised his eyebrows, expectant, already drawing a sheet of paper, no doubt detailing those needs, towards him.

Isobel’s face warmed and her hands were slippery inside her thin gloves. “I am afraid, Mr. Anderson, that you have been mistaken. Perhaps I should have been clearer in my letter to you.”

Anderson gave a little shake of his head. He was still smiling, but a furrow had appeared between his eyebrows. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Miss Moore.”

This was not, Isobel thought with some panic, going at all how she’d anticipated. She drew a shaky breath. “The truth is, sir, that my family is not even aware of this visit.”

Anderson sat forward, his smile fading as the furrow deepened. “Oh? I’m afraid then I’m not clear on why you have visited, Miss Moore.”

Just then Jacob knocked on the door, and Isobel was given a few moments to compose herself as he bustled in with the tea things. Mr. Anderson’s tone, she thought, had sounded quite a bit cooler when she’d admitted her family didn’t know she was here. But he’d authorized those pamphlets. Why shouldn’t she take him up on the challenge he’d issued?

Bolstered by this thought as well as a much-needed sip of tea, Isobel felt emboldened enough to speak plainly. “I’m here, Mr. Anderson, because I am interested in missions for myself. That is, to become a missionary.”

Anderson did not speak for a moment, and Isobel took another sip of tea, burning her tongue. She realized she had foolishly envisioned this to be easy; she’d imagined Rufus Anderson welcoming her into the mission fold with delight and gratitude. Clearly she had been reading too many romantic novels.

“I see,” he finally said, and his voice sounded regretful. “I’m afraid I did misunderstand your intent, Miss Moore. I assumed you had requested an appointment to discuss a donation.”

“Oh
.” Mortified, Isobel looked down. “I see. Of course, my family—my father would be delighted—”

“No, no, it is my own mistake.” He waved her stammering protestations aside, smiling ruefully. “I made a wishful presumption. However...” His expression softened into sympathy as he continued, “I’m afraid, Miss Moore, that we no longer accept unmarried women into the missions field.”

She bit her lip. “But I read about Betsey Stockton—going to the Hawaiian Islands—”

“Yes, yes, that is true.” He nodded, but the gesture was one of dismissal. “However, that was many years ago now, and since then, based on—unfortunate—experiences, we have chosen only to allow married couples to embark on what surely is an arduous, painful, and often fatal journey.” He regarded her rather sternly, as if he suspected her of wanting to be a missionary out of boredom rather than zeal. And really, Isobel thought miserably, wasn’t that at least partially the truth? Maybe even mostly. She felt her face flush yet again and she stared down at her lap.

“I... I see.” Taking a deep breath, she placed her cup and saucer back on the table with a rather unsteady clatter. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“We do, however,” Anderson said after a pause, “maintain a list of missionary-minded young women who are educated, pious, and of good health, for marriage purposes.”

Isobel stared at him blankly. “Marriage purposes?”

“Many young men who wish to enter the mission field are unmarried,” Anderson explained. “And they wish to find a suitable life partner to accompany them on missions. We maintain a list for such men, in order to aid them in seeking a wife. Perhaps you would like to include yourself? Naturally I would need a reference from your own minister.”

“A reference…” she repeated blankly. She could feel her face redden further and she pleated her fingers together in her lap, nervous and unaccountably embarrassed. Humiliated, even. To put her name on a list…! It was galling indeed. And yet… it was a chance not only for adventure, but perhaps even for happiness. She cleared her throat. “Well, that is a rather different proposition than I was anticipating, Mr. Anderson. I’m not sure I can give you an answer today regarding such a serious consideration…”

“No, of course not,” Anderson said quickly, clearly sensitive to her embarrassment. “It is, perhaps, an alternative you might wish to consider... if you are indeed serious about entering the mission field.”

Isobel forced herself to meet his compassionate and far too knowing gaze. “Yes,” she said, lifting her chin even as her face flamed. “I suppose I might consider it.”